


Midwinter Mysteries

by MiladyMorningstar (PrincessPestilence)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Courting Rituals, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Professors, Language of Flowers, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Top Neville Longbottom, romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessPestilence/pseuds/MiladyMorningstar
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a lonely 30-year-old potions professor with nothing going for him until he finds a declaration of intent sitting on his coffee table. With an unknown wizard courting him and only a week left of the term, life has just gotten a lot more interesting.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Neville Longbottom
Comments: 26
Kudos: 161





	1. A gift of flowers to show intent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robyngirlwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robyngirlwonder/gifts).



> Guys, I started this chapter in 2013 for Robyn. Robyn, I know you're more into Dron nowadays, but I finally have an idea of how this will go and I'm excited to finally get it written for you, especially since xmas was pretty skimpy this year. Love you!

At 30, Draco Malfoy was disappointed to find that he had managed to become his godfather. Frustratingly single, still at Hogwarts teaching ungrateful, uninterested teenagers the art of potion-making (which mostly translates to teaching them how to manage not to blow up their cauldrons). 

The reprieve of Hogsmeade weekends and the all-too-brief holiday leaves could not spice up his non-existent social life. Not even the semi-anonymous club scene was an option for him; he was too well known, and as a respected Hogwarts professor, it was his duty to be a role model. No one would want their children being taught by an ex-death eater who had drunken, homosexual one-offs with strangers in random toilet cubicles. He'd had to pay through the nose in solicitor's fees to keep _that one_ out of the Prophet. 

At this point he feared his only options were to allow his mother to arrange him a marriage with a money-grubbing, Pureblooded socialite, let Pansy and Blaise push him into blind dates with wayward Hufflepuffs (the both of them had managed to find themselves a pet 'Puff, and now they swear everyone should have one. He has yet to forgive them for the disaster that was Zacharias Smith), or to stew in his sexual frustration until his students are as afraid of him as Neville Longbottom was of Severus. 

Unfortunately, Longbottom seems to have overcome his irrational fear of potions masters. The annoyingly friendly Herbology professor often made pathetic attempts at small talk with Draco during meal times. Honestly, despite his rare outbursts of Gryffindor bravery, the man was practically a Hufflepuff himself. In fact, if Pansy were here, she'd probably try to trick them into being locked together in the greenhouse in the hopes that the magically maintained climate would somehow be conducive to romance. 

While useful in potions, Draco could honestly say he didn't think plants were very romantic. Certainly, they had never fed his arousal. Locked in a greenhouse with Longbottom sounded like it would be more likely to end with Draco developing hay-fever and a headache, than a spontaneous sexual affair. Although, there was the matter of aphrodisiacs. 

As Draco tried to remember which plants produced sex-pollen and which flower it was that mimicked the scent of satyr pheromones, Neville Longbottom prattled on next to him about two 6th years who had done something or other involving adhesive sap. 

“...I don't even think they noticed me until I sent an aguamenti onto the poor boy's prick.”

“What was that?” Draco was suddenly startled out of his herbological meanderings at the mention of magically conjured ice-water directed to a student's private area. Internally he winced with sympathy and wondered what the hell Longbottom was talking about that involved magicking someone's penis. 

“Weren't you listening, Malfoy?” the Gryffindor Head of House blinked at him as a slightly incredulous crease formed between his brows. Draco refused to feel guilt that no, he hadn't been, and really he didn't appreciate the attitude. 

“No, sorry,” he said bluntly but hurried on at the mildly disappointed set the brunette’s lips began to take, “I was trying to remember the name of a flower I need for a potion I wanted to make, I missed the first part of that story. Do you mind repeating it?” 

Longbottom stared at him sceptically for a moment but apparently decided Draco was deserving of hearing the story a second time. 

“So as I was saying, I went into the greenhouse earlier, after classes. I was checking on my Doly flowers; the ones I just got last week? They’ve been needing a little extra attention, so I thought I’d just pop by and see how they were doing. Now, I don’t know what it is about the greenhouse that attracts randy students; I mean, it’s totally translucent, not to mention I’m there all the time. It’s not exactly the ideal hiding place. But without fail, every year, I catch someone snogging or shagging or, remember three years ago, when I caught Amos Asselbrough wanking into my flobberworm tank?”

Draco _did_ remember that, although he hadn’t heard it from Longbottom at the time. He’d heard about it through the student grapevine, a rich and widely tapped resource regarding the goings-on at the school. Asselbrough had been a fifth-year at the time and had spent the next two and a half years with the lovingly bestowed title of Flobberdick, a name Draco hoped for the kid’s sake didn’t follow him after graduation. Unfortunately, Draco feared that would be the name under which the child would be remembered ad infinitum, at least amongst the staff at Hogwarts.

Draco nodded wisely, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget old Flobberdick.”

“Oh!” Longbottom scowled, smacking Draco in the arm which hurt but Draco tried valiantly not to let it show. “Don’t call him that!” 

“I’m not the one who came up with the name!” Draco protested, really fighting not to rub at the ache in his skinny arm. 

“Anyway,” Longbottom frowned, eying Draco suspiciously, “so I walk into the greenhouse and immediately, I hear a commotion. Again, it’s not a very good hiding spot. But it’s not like, sex noises, you know? It sounds like someone’s got themselves stuck in some Devil’s Snare or something, so I rush over and it’s Rayner Quayle and Faye Romney from Ravenclaw in flagrante delicto on one of my workbenches.”

Ah, Rayner and Faye. Ravenclaw’s seventh-year power-couple. Both bright and innovative. Not a shred of common sense between them. Which, to be fair, is quite common for Ravenclaws. “So Quayle got himself stuck, then?” Draco asked, catching onto what Longbottom was getting at.

The professor nodded gravely. “He’d used adhesive sap as a lubricant, and they were fully stuck together. I really can’t imagine, but poor Faye was crying. It seems the harder Rayner tried to pull out, the faster it stuck. Thankfully, the sap is water-soluble, which they should have known if they were using either of their upstairs brains, so I cast an aguamenti onto the, ah, problem area, and he slipped right out. I docked about 50 points from Ravenclaw and sent them both to Poppy to get checked out, but they seem to have made a full recovery,” he concluded his story, gesturing with his chin over to the Ravenclaw table where the two sat in visibly awkward silence.

Draco was barely able to catch a glimpse of the two mortified teenagers, too busy was he laughing up his lungs. The students were glancing at him nervously, and he swore he saw the two Ravenclaws in question hunching in on themselves. “Oh, Circe! That’s incredible! I mean, I had my fair share of regretful rendezvous, but I can honestly say I’ve never had to be sent to hospital because of it.”

Longbottom gave a small, half-hidden grin, ducking his head to hide it from the eyes Draco’s own spectacle was drawing towards them. “It was pretty hilarious,” he admitted. 

Draco laid a pale hand on one of Longbottom’s broad shoulders, chest still heaving from laughter, tears sticking to his pale lashes. “Longbottom, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year,” he said in absolute honesty. 

The Gryffindor head grinned like the Sun was coming out and Draco had to blink and glance away, thanking the gods that his face was still too flushed from laughing to show a blush. It was really, _really_ not fair that the man was so damnably attractive. And probably straight to boot. 

Not that he’d be interested in Longbottom even if the brunet _did_ fly for his team. 

Or anything. 

Gods, Draco needed to get laid. 

Dinner didn’t last much longer, and the two passed the time in ordinary conversation. Longbottom was actually quite a pleasant conversationalist when Draco deigned to pay attention. He bid the man good night and followed the students out of the Great Hall.

He was actually in a good mood for once when he reached his rooms down in the familiar depths of the castle dungeon. Casting a charm to light the room, Draco flung his coat off with a flourish worthy of his old godfater and sent it floating to the hook by the door. Then he nearly tripped over his own feet as he stopped dead, staring in utter disbelief at the coffee table. 

Sat on the old mahogany was a perfectly ordinary glass [vase](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/bb/7e/f0/bb7ef0ee3d72b19cc93ebb0f93ff856f.jpg) with perfectly ordinary flowers in them. Nine in total. A bouquet of camellias in pink and white and red. Three apiece. Altogether it was a lovely arrangement and absolutely nothing to be alarmed about. 

Except. 

Except it hadn’t been there when he’d left his rooms that morning.

Except, it was an arrangement of camellias, three by three. Three [white](https://www.thetreecenter.com/c/uploads/white-by-the-gates-camellia-1.jpg) as a sign that the sender thought he was attractive. Three in [pink](https://www.gardenia.net/storage/app/public/uploads/images/39342051_m.jpg) to show longing. Three in [red](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSZsGM1ukq4DUCKUEGNKijeToC1_W3m_dGIxbepnGM6i1lJIBd58NQZSRU5nz7vd33vkLxGwkw&usqp=CAc) for ardour. It was a perfectly ordinary, perfectly organised, perfectly traditional courting gift. A declaration of intention in the language of flowers.

Draco regained power over his limbs and walked cautiously over to the bouquet, admiring and inspecting the flowers and their receptacle from all angles. There was no note. No indication of who had sent them. There were half a dozen eligible men in this school, from Giles Yoxall, the fit, 40-something Quidditch coach to Wesley Osbern, the newly minted 21-year-old magical theories professor. Any one of them could have conceivably had a bouquet sent to his rooms. The question was who, and would Draco even be interested? Yoxall, an ex-beater for the Appleby Arrows could honestly bend him over any surface any time. Having taught Osbern, however, Draco would have to say no. It would be weird. Like if he started chatting up Flitwick. There really was just no telling who his mystery courter was. 

There was one thing he did know, however, and that was if his man was planning to continue the way he had begun, Draco could expect at least four more courting gifts before this was done.

He was nervous. He was excited. He had no idea if he would be at all interested in whoever this secret admirer was, but Draco had never been courted before. Had honestly never expected anyone would give enough of a shit about him to bother, and the fact that it was happening now made him giddy and terrified in turns. 

He couldn’t wait to see what the next gift would be. He wondered how long it would take him to figure out the sender’s identity. 

The game was on. There was a week til winter break and things were finally getting interesting. 


	2. A gift of something beautiful to show your appreciation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is late because I completely forgot to actually come up with a plot and a set of gifts when I decided to start writing this again. I was like "yes! it's been 7 years, but I know what kinds of courting gifts should be featured in this pureblood tradition!" and then i just didn't pick any specific gifts. And then when I picked those out, I was like "what the hell are these chapters going to be about? i do not have a story." so I really jumped the gun when I started this, but rest assured, I have a plan now. I still intend to finish by new years eve.

Draco woke in a state of determination. He would find out who sent him the flowers. Do a little retcon. He’d start with Giles Yoxall, the Quidditch coach, as he knew from the papers that the man was as gay as the day is long. He hoped it was Giles Yoxall. If that didn’t pan out, he’d poke a little at Wesley Osbern, who Draco recalled from the man’s student years also preferred the masculine touch. (Draco had once caught him and fellow Slytherin Andreas Finnce in the potions supply closet with their hands down one another’s trousers while they were supposed to have been serving detention.)

He doubted it was Wesley, to be quite honest, but it paid to be thorough and Draco would explore every avenue. Today, subtly interrogate the two men Draco knew for certain were queer. Tomorrow, dig into the lives of the other male teachers at the school. He knew his admirer couldn’t be a woman, as Draco himself was openly homosexual, and Draco didn’t know of any member of faculty who could possibly be ignorant of that fact, or delusional enough to ignore it. There was a slight possibility his courter could be a student, but Draco put the thought out of his mind for the sake of his own sanity. 

He rushed through his daily ablutions, tying his long, white-blond hair back with a black ribbon before pulling it over his left shoulder. Slipping his robes on, he stopped to sniff the bunch of camellias, grinning to himself as he left his rooms. 

One distinct disadvantage to being a Head of House was that Draco was obligated to be in the Great Hall to supervise students during all meals. This meant that he would be unable to speak to either Yoxall _or_ Osbern until after classes that afternoon. 

On the plus side, he was an early enough riser that he was able to snag the good coffee while it was still fresh, and had his pick of the offerings at the head table. McGonagall (whom he called “Minerva” to her face, per her request, but internally had never stopped thinking of as his professor and headmistress) quickly drew him into conversation about his plans for the end of term potions exams, and the two chatted amiably while students trickled in in groups, bleary-eyed and visibly sleep-deprived. He felt for them, truly. He’d mastered the skill of applying make-up to conceal dark circles in fourth-year; truly one of the most useful tricks he’d learned while at Hogwarts. He was blessed to have grown into a morning-person once he’d escaped the exhaustion of adolescence. A bit of strong coffee, more for mental fortification than as a stimulant, and he was ready to meet the day. He hoped for his students’ sakes that it was a trait they, too would grow into sooner rather than later. 

He barely noticed Longbottom stumbling in almost half-way through breakfast and collapsing into a chair at the end of the long table, next to Flitwick. A glance over showed the man crumpled forward, bracing himself with his elbows as he desperately downed some old coffee (which never tasted quite right after it had been heated magically or left in stasis). Clearly, he’d not gotten any decent sleep the night before, as the Gryffindor head was normally as bright and chipper as the birds in the mornings, one of the few things the two had in common. 

Being in such a good mood himself, Draco made a mental note to remind himself to offer the brunet a sleeping draught at dinner that night. 

*

Draco was noticeably distracted during his classes. Or, at least, he noticed enough to be mortified about it. His logical brain told him that his students almost definitely didn’t care enough to pay attention to that kind of thing, and Draco was meticulous with his lesson-planning. 

While his godfather had been an incredible potions master whose skills Draco expected would far surpass his own for years yet, the late war hero had been a consummately terrible teacher. A combination of having no love for children and little patience for stupidity, exacerbated by the fact that he wasn’t allowed to leave meant that if one wasn’t already familiar with potions theory (as Draco was by virtue of having grown up with the man), one was not likely to absorb much from his teaching style. Draco, conversely, actually enjoyed teaching. True, he hadn’t had many other job opportunities when he was twenty and had just finished his apprenticeship in Marseilles, the War still too fresh in everyone’s minds to offer leniency to one of the most well known of the Death Eaters. Still, after he had gotten his bearings in this new dynamic of his old stomping grounds, he found that teaching was rather rewarding. He _liked_ when a student who had been struggling finally made the connection of how the potions ingredients worked together. He _liked_ being able to rant and rave passionately about a subject he was interested in, and getting these bored, apathetic students interested as well, if only for a few minutes. And when his students succeeded, when they chose to continue working with Potions for their NEWTs, Draco was _proud_. He was a good teacher, and a fairly popular one amongst the students, despite their parents’ initial objections.

Sure, not every student succeeded in his class. It was incredible, really, how many students simply could not grasp basic potions theory. Still, he made a point to work with them as much as possible, and together they might manage to scrape by with a passing grade. Which still made Draco quite proud, if he was honest. 

It was not the work that he expected to fall into when he was younger, but adult-Draco found it very rewarding nonetheless, to everyone’s surprise, his own most of all.

Which made it all the more frustrating when he couldn’t stop thinking about those damnable flowers and who his suitor might be and what he might receive that night as a second courting gift. If it would even be that night. Students would be leaving for winter break on Saturday morning and it was already Tuesday, which meant there was the perfect amount of time for his suitor to progress through all five stages of traditional courting gifts by Friday, but it was just as possible that his suitor was working on an entirely different timeline. One a week? One a month? One every other month? This courtship might not end until next Midwinter, if he was being conservatively traditional. 

On the one hand, that would be terribly romantic and a part of Draco swooned a little at the thought of a long, drawn-out romance, and the satisfaction of a slow burn. On the other hand, it had already been almost a year since Draco had last gotten laid, and he was rather putting all his eggs in the basket set for Saturday at the latest. 

With this in mind, Draco hurried out of the potions classroom after his final period, barely putting any effort to prepare the room for the next morning which he knew would only create more work for himself, but he also knew that Hufflepuff Quidditch practice started in an hour and Draco wanted to intercept Yoxall before his attention was occupied elsewhere. 

He detoured back to his room to grab his thick, woollen cloak, tugging it tight around his body as he trekked out of the castle towards the Quidditch pitch. Gods, but he missed flying. Maybe he would snag the snitch and take his broom for a spin over the holiday. With any luck, Yoxall would join him, and then possibly ravish him on the field. Or, well, that actually might get him fired since there were still going to be a few students in the castle over the break, and it was quite against the rules for teachers to expose themselves to any children, let alone copulate out in the open in the middle of the day. And also it was likely to be bollocks-freezingly cold out, being that it was northern Scotland in December. So, probably the ravishing would have to wait until they were safely sequestered in one of their private rooms where no innocent eyes might spy them. He had a brief thought of trying to make use of the stands or the showers, but flashbacks of his teenage years and a decade of finding _other_ randy teenagers in just those places cooled his exhibitionist streak a tad.

Longbottom was right about the Greenhouses being popular meeting spots for hot-blooded young couples, but that was hardly where it ended. Every closet, every empty classroom, every abandoned alcove, every moderately covered hidey-hole on these grounds of which there were possibly hundreds might, at any moment, be hiding one or more naked teenager. Longbottom was lucky that he was mostly sequestered in the Greenhouses. Draco had to spend all his time in the castle proper, with all the knowledge granted him as a former randy teenager roaming these halls himself back in the day, and he did not exaggerate when he said he was wary opening every door and rounding every darkened corner. He could not imagine what McGonnagal or, gods forbid Dumbledore had seen in their decades-long tenure at this school. 

Draco forcibly shook away his waking nightmares as he approached the pitch. He didn’t immediately see the Quidditch coach slash flying instructor and so he meandered over to the shed containing all the Quidditch supplies, hoping he hadn’t made his way out here just for Yoxall to be inside in his office. Which, Draco admitted to himself he probably should have checked first. 

Fortunately, upon opening the door to the utterly uninsulated shed (seriously, why hadn’t anyone cast some warming charms on this place? There’s no good reason why any wizarding building needed to be this cold, even if it was a storage shed) Draco spied the tall, broad figure of Giles Yoxall casting cleaning charms on the various supplies. Smart, teenagers were singularly filthy. 

“Oh, Yoxall! I didn’t expect to see you in here!” Draco lied.

Yoxall whipped around, squinting his eyes at Draco who stood silhouetted by the afternoon sun. Even in the dim lighting of the shed, Yoxall was an impressive specimen. Half a head taller than Draco’s own respectable six feet, with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and powerful thighs Draco could make out through his flying breeches, Draco had been drooling over the man since he was in school, and Yoxall was flying as beater for the Appleby Arrows. Draco doubted his hands could even make it around the other man’s muscular bicep. The hint of grey at the temples and streaking through his dark hair did not detract from the image at all. In fact, it made the man look especially distinguished and quite… authoritative. Draco lounged against the doorframe, letting the light catch on his long, fair hair. He knew his best attributes. 

“Malfoy,” Yoxall greeted a little warily, “what can I do for you?”

“Oh,” Draco waved the solicitation away casually, “I was actually looking for Penelope Hickenloeper,” he thought up on the spot, knowing the seventh year to be the Hufflepuff captain.

Yoxall’s shoulders fell in… relief? Disappointment? Draco didn’t know. “Oh, no, you’re not likely to see her out here for another hour yet,” he said in his strong northern accent. 

“Oh, damn. I was told she comes out here sometimes before practice. I needed to speak with her about her final project.” The seventh-year NEWT projects didn’t even start until next term. 

“You’ll have to check elsewhere, I’m afraid,” Yoxall shrugged apologetically. 

“Yes, I suppose I must,” Draco agreed. “So, what are your plans for the holiday?” Draco asked, very subtly.

“Um,” Yoxall peered curiously at Draco and Draco wondered if the look was hiding apprehension. Was he nervous that Draco was catching on to his plan? Was this te look of a man caught? “I was actually planning on heading home to visit my parents,” he said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” Draco brushed is hair back over his shoulder. “I was only making conversation. We haven’t talked much, you know. I thought I ought to make an effort. To be more sociable.”

Yoxall nodded, accepting the excuse, before crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “I suppose that’s fair enough. Have you got any plans?”

Aha! Got him hooked. Draco shook his head, turning his head to look out over the field, the picture of disappointment. “No, unfortunately. My mother will be with her sister in Aegina, so I’ll just be here, alone.” Not a lie, actually. His mother and aunt Andromeda had reconnected after the war, and had recently taken to spending the festival of Poseidonia in Aegina for the whole month of December. Draco only wished he, too, was on a Mediterranean island right now instead of the Scottish Highlands. 

“Ah, tough luck, that,” Yoxall said with what sounded like real regret in his voice. 

“Yes, it is. Tell me, Giles, if I may call you that, do you have a favourite flower? Just, out of idle curiosity.” Draco was the Platonic ideal of indiscretion.

Yoxall leaned his head back as if in thought, before shaking his head, soft, shaggy hair mussing in the winter breeze. “Nah I don’t care much about flowers. My fiancé is fond of primroses, though.”

**_Fiancé_ **.

“Oh, primroses are quite lovely. I’m fond of them myself. You’re engaged, then?” What the fuck. What. The. Fuck. _Fiancé_ . **_Fuck_ **!

Yoxall smiled, his white teeth just slightly crooked in a way that was a bit offputting. “Yeah, I just popped the question before term started. We’re hoping to get married in July or August. The wait is terrible, let me tell you. If it were up to me, we’d be tying the knot on Saturday!” The tall man laughed loudly and Draco awkwardly followed suit. 

“I’m sure it must be awful, having to wait so long,” Draco said sympathetically. “Your fiancé must be a patient man.”

Yoxall nodded, his eyes drifting off as if chasing visions of his beloved. “Patient as a saint that man is,” Yoxall agreed, voice soft and utterly besotted. 

“Well, good luck to you both. I hope you’ll both have a wonderful holiday. Give my greetings to your mother, yes?” Draco said, niceties spilling out of him as he extricated himself.

“Will do! You’re not so bad, Malfoy. I hope you have a good Christmas.” As if Draco celebrated Christmas. 

Draco waved cheerfully as he stomped back to the castle, internally screaming at his own idiocy. Fiancé. Circe’s bloody tits. 

He was about to turn down toward the dungeon to make an appearance in his own office, when he thought he might as well go check out Osbern. His office was on the first floor, one in a line of offices for teachers who didn’t teach one of the core subjects. Draco knocked and the door opened to reveal Wesley whose expression went from what he thought might have been trying to be something in the neighbourhood of “genial” to abject terror. 

Oh, right. Osbern had been petrified of Draco in school. Apparently being acquitted for acts of terrorism was much more of note than being a skinny 20-something in a castle full of teenagers barely younger than him. That Draco had been Osbern’s head of house only made him more frightening, apparently. Draco didn’t remember Severus having the same effect on Slytherin house when he was in school, but then the man did heavily favour them, even if he didn’t especially like them. 

“Osbern, good I’ve caught you,” Draco said, automatically slipping into his teaching voice. “I was just wondering if you left anything in my rooms yesterday?” he just came right out with it. His good mood was shot.

“Uh, no sir,” Osbern stuttered as if he were still one of Draco’s students and not a fellow colleague. 

“Right, just wondering. Have a good evening,” Draco nodded briskly and turned on his heel, his cloak flaring out behind him. Double damn.

*

Draco was brooding when he finally arrived at dinner, a little tipsy from having dipped into some of his good wine during his office hours. He picked at his fish, scowling.

“Something the matter, Draco?” Longbottom’s cheerful voice cut through his indulgent sulking. 

“No,” he snapped. Then, “Yes.” 

“Well, what is it? You can tell me, I promise I won’t laugh or anything.” Of course he wouldn’t laugh. Longbottom was _kind_ and _sympathetic_ and would probably try to comfort him.

Although maybe that wouldn’t be so bad… “I’m being courted,” he said sullenly.

Confusion and a little wariness crossed Longbottom’s face. “And that’s… bad?”

Draco scowled. “No! The bad part is I have no idea who it is! I thought I did, but apparently, the bloke’s _engaged_.”

Longbottom’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “Who, Yoxall?”

“What, did everyone know he was engaged except me?” Draco cried out, gesturing widely and nearly smacking Longbottom in the chest. Damn, but the man was broad. Neville Longbottom had no business growing up from such a dumpy little nothing into a tall, thick tree of a man. He was at least three inches taller than Draco and looked like he could probably carry him with no problem. Where did a herbology professor get muscles like that? 

Longbottom’s eyes widened, a little in surprise and a little in misplaced guilt. “I mean, yeah? He announced it at the back-to-school party.”

“Buggeration,” Draco swore, gulping down his sparkling water. 

“You really thought Yoxall was courting you? Like, proper courting?” Longbottom asked. “Have the two of you ever even spoken?” 

Draco shrugged. “No, but I don’t exactly talk to anybody, so it was just as likely to be him as anyone else. I also cleared Wesley Osbern, but I didn’t actually think it was him. Only, Wesley and Yoxall are the only two I know for sure like men. I’ll have to actually do some digging on the others.”

“Want some help?” Longbottom offered like the polite boy his grandmother raised him to be. 

Draco side-eyed him. “Do you really want to?” 

“Yeah well, if you’re so hung up over it. And people actually _talk_ to me, so I’ll probably have an easier time of finding out information than you will. You know Osbern is still scared of you?”

Draco snorted, “Yeah, I noticed. I don’t know _why_ . I never _did_ anything to him.” Longbottom was right about being more approachable, though. Draco kept himself to himself and made no effort to hide how disinterested he was in other people’s lives. “All right,”

“All right, you’ll let me help?” Longbottom clarified and Draco nodded, a little begrudgingly. 

“Yeah, if you can find out who in this faculty likes men, I’d be, you know, grateful,” Draco muttered uncharitably, but Longbottom only grinned like he was amused. 

“Those are big words coming from you, Draco. I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow. Come to mine after dinner then?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Draco held his hand out to shake on it, and was almost surprised at how warm Longbottom’s broad palm was in his own. 

*

He was wary entering his rooms that evening. While he hoped there would be a second gift, it was just as likely that there wouldn’t be. Or even that the flowers were a one-off. Maybe a gift from McGonagall, who knew?

But no, there it was. On the coffee table next to the glass vase was a small box tied with a ribbon. 

Draco approached it as if it might explode. Or bite him. Carefully, he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid off the wooden case. He gasped at the contents. 

Inside was a silver [falcon](https://i.etsystatic.com/17417911/r/il/924a48/1828328306/il_794xN.1828328306_8bh4.jpg) about the size of his three fingers, along with a thick pin. It was a hairpin and a beautiful one at that. Not especially feminine, nor was it overly detailed as many of the popular Celtic designs tended to be. It wasn’t just that it was beautiful, as Draco had expected the gift would be - the second courting gift was always an accessory of some sort. Something beautiful. The thing was, that it was a bird. And not just a bird, but a falcon. Draco imagined if it had been painted and not a carved from silver that it would be white with grey spots, just as Draco himself was in his [animagus](https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/assets/photo/40537731-480px.jpg) form. Just as his suitor must have known.

Draco was registered with the ministry, of course, but he was not nearly so open with his animagus form as McGonagall was with hers. Draco didn’t make a habit of transforming on school grounds. Who could know Draco well enough to know his animagus was a gyrfalcon? Or was it just an eerily good aesthetic choice?

Draco hoped Longbottom was able to dig up some useful information tomorrow because the curiosity was going to eat him alive.


	3. A gift of something practical to show respect

Draco liked children. Really, he did. He found them creative and hilarious and often inspirational. On the Wednesday before term’s end, however, he found them rather more like ravenous, rabid weasels, gnawing at the bars of their cage. Draco could not - really,  _ could not _ wait for them to finally be released back into the wilds for the winter holiday.

And had anyone said anything about his new hairpin? Of course they hadn’t, because all teenagers ever think about is themselves. Gods he hated them. Kind of. Not really. He really  _ wanted  _ to hate them right then, though, so it counted.

He didn’t make much conversation with Longbottom that evening at dinner, both of them having been caught up in deescalating an explosive fight between a group of fifth-year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Draco was proud to say the house rivalry was as strong as ever. He’d have to take measures to make sure no one found out about his visiting the Gryffindor head that evening. It would wreck his reputation. 

It was this illicit forbidden fraternisation that had his heart racing when he left his rooms that evening. Probably. That, and the residual emotion from finding the box of exquisite, butter-soft, elbow-length, dragonhide gloves on his coffee table next to the camellias. Perfect for potions brewing. Of course, the gloves he currently wore were also dragonhide and had been quite expensive when he’d bought them, but that had been several years ago and  _ these  _ were brand new. Brand new gleaming black scales with delicate silver embroidery depicting the constellation Draco which nestled right into the crook of his elbow, like a little secret. 

He loved them. Possibly more than he loved the hairclip, and he was of a mind to wear  _ it  _ every day for the rest of his life. 

It was the embroidery that got him. Potions gloves, yes, that was a useful gift; certainly fulfilling the criterion that the third gift be something practical, but the embroidery, that was personal. These weren’t gloves for any potions master. These were gloves just for  _ him _ . These weren’t gloves made for a man named after a dragon, no. These were gloves for a man named for the  _ stars _ . And the unpolished quality of the stitching that clashed with the professional make of the gloves themselves meant that the emblem hadn’t been a requested addition, but rather something his suitor had sewn himself, just for Draco. 

Of course, it wasn’t a secret that Draco was named for the constellation. Astronomy was a popular elective course at Hogwarts. Everyone knew the major constellations, and anyone with any knowledge of pureblood society knew the Blacks named their children after them. Hardly private information. But it was just so  _ thoughtful  _ Draco thought he might actually cry.

He was half falling in love with this man and he didn’t even know who he was, yet.

With this in mind, he tucked the bottle of firewhiskey closer to himself as he journeyed up and up and up to the quarters of the Gryffindor head of house. This was the real reason for the Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry, Draco thought. All these bloody stairs. You couldn’t help but hate whoever lived at the other end of them. He was panting a little when he got to the top and that was just depressing. He was going to have to take up jogging. Eugh. 

Taking a moment to get his breathing back under control, Draco made sure he looked respectable before knocking at the heavy door. 

Longbottom answered quickly and Draco wondered if he might have been waiting by the door. Maybe he wasn’t as popular as Draco thought if a visit from  _ him  _ had him acting desperate for company. 

“Draco! I wasn’t sure when you’d be coming! I didn’t realise until after dinner that we’d never set an actual time.”

“Oh,” Draco blinked a little stupidly. “Is this… not a good time? I can come back later.” Please, no. “Only, I thought ‘after dinner’ meant you know,  _ right  _ after dinner.” Gods, now  _ he  _ was the desperate one. Someone put them out of their miseries. 

“No! No, this is perfect! That is what I meant, I just wasn’t sure if it really came across that way, you know? Like, maybe you thought it might mean later after the Prefects had gone to bed, or a specific time or something. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You’re still in the hallway, come in!” Longbottom rambled and Draco’s own embarrassment faded the deeper the flush on the taller man’s face became. 

“Thanks,” Draco said a little dryly. “I’ve brought liquor,” he offered politely, holding out the bottle like a boon. 

“Brilliant,” Longbottom sighed gustily in relief. “The sofa’s just there. Go on and have a seat, and I’ll get us some glasses.”

Draco took the chance to look around some. The layout was an exact copy of his own quarters, but the furniture was definitely Gryffindorish. A warm, worn-in brown sofa in an old-fashioned floral pattern and a padded chair that only sort of matched. It was cosy, but it was clean and not especially cluttered. He found he rather liked it. 

The sofa was a bit firmer than he preferred. Clearly, something bought from someone’s formal parlour, and not an item made for long-term comfort. He imagined Longbottom spent most of his time in the overstuffed chair. 

Longbottom came back with two tumblers with two fingers each of the burning spirit, glasses balanced in one large hand while the other carried the bottle to the glass-topped end-table. 

“Here you are,” he handed one of the glasses to Draco and took a seat in the chair, nudging some stray yarn back under the table where a woven basket hid. 

“You knit?” Draco asked, unaccountably endeared. 

Longbottom blushed again, complexion going ruddy under the dark stubble that had started to grow since his shave that morning. “I’ve started to. My grandmother knits, and I thought, well, I don’t have much else to do in my free time. I’m not especially artistic, and I’ve never quite got the hang of music-” 

“Music is easy!” Draco argued, “It’s all muscle memory. You just read it off and your hands do the rest!”

Longbottom winced behind his glass, “Yeah, but it’s the  _ timing  _ that fucks me up. I can’t keep tempo to save my life. Believe me, I played the harpsichord all through Charm School and my teacher couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

Draco gasped a little theatrically, “Did you just  _ swear _ ?”

Longbottom rolled his eyes. “I’m thirty years old, you know. I  _ do  _ swear occasionally. I just keep a tighter lid on it around the kiddies than you do.” He glared disapprovingly and Draco scoffed, sprawling out on the long sofa with his head on the arm rest.

“None of these kids are learning to swear from me. They’re teenagers. You think that ‘fuck’ doesn’t come out of their mouths every third sentence when they’re talking to each other?”

“Well, no,” Longbottom relented. “I’ve overheard enough of their conversations to know that’s true enough. But still. McGonagall surely wouldn’t approve?”

Draco raised a pale, manicured brow at the other man. “Are you going to tattle on me?”

Longbottom smirked a little. “Well, if you recall, I  _ did  _ get points for Gryffindor my first year for tattling on Harry, Ron and Hermione.”

Draco scowled. “Don’t talk to me about first year. I’ve never forgiven Dumbledore for that, you know. Do you know how it felt to have Slytherin win the house cup only to have it taken away after the fact? It was just cruel is what it was.”

Longbottom winced a little, reaching forward to pat Draco’s ankle awkwardly. “Sorry. A lot of what happened when we were in school was not on,” he said consolingly. 

“‘Not on’, he says,” Draco muttered, but waved the topic away. “Anyway, what have you found about the other teachers?” 

The Gryffindor brightened. “Right! I did some digging. Now, of course Yoxall and Osbern are out of the running, Hagrid-” 

“Hates me,” Draco cut in, and Longbottom tilted his head as if he wanted to argue the phrasing if not the sentiment, but ultimately conceded. 

“Er, yeah. Well. Anyway, Flitwick is married-”

“Flitwick is  _ married _ ?! Since when?!”

Longbottom set his carefully compiled list on his lap and stared at Draco incredulously. “Since  _ always _ ? Since probably the fifties or sixties at least! How did you not know that?”

Draco shrugged helplessly, honestly boggled by the fact the tiny man had apparently been married for as long as Dracos parents had been alive. Well good for him, anyway.

“ _ Anyway _ . There’s the new caretaker, Rafe Varnham. He’s gay.”

“Varnham is a squib and he’s 24 years old.”

Longbottom gave another frown of disapproval. “Just because he’s a squib doesn’t mean he’s not a good man. And you’re only 30.”

Draco rolled his whole body, nearly falling off the couch as he reached for the bottle to top off his whiskey. “He’s a squib who smells of body odour and tobacco and I wouldn’t trust him to water my plants. I don’t know whose dick he sucked to get on here, but I expect McGonagall will come to her senses sooner rather than later.”

“Still, being a squib doesn’t discount him from knowing enough pureblood traditions to start a courtship. His mother was a pureblood. He’s a possibility.”

“Disgusting,” Draco declared with finality before downing the entirety of his second glass.

“Dederick Hautreeve is also gay, but he’s married as well.” Longbottom continued on with his list.

Draco let his head fall back onto the arm of the sofa as he stared despondently up at the ceiling. “I don’t know if I’d be willing to marry him even if he were single.”

“Why not? He’s a handsome man, sort of. If you go for that sort of thing.”

He was about an inch shorter than Draco with short grey hair and a cut-glass accent. Not unattractive, per se, but, “He’s also twenty years older than me, and he was my music teacher. I don’t think I could stomach sleeping with one of my old professors.”

“I’ve been told that’s quite hot, actually,” Longbottom pointed out casually and Draco leant up on his elbows, gesturing with his glass which nearly spilt on the rug.

“The only people who think that are students with crushes on their professors, and their judgement isn’t to be trusted.”

Longbottom snorted in agreement. “They are persistent, though.”

“Of  _ course  _ the students are trying to get into  _ your  _ pants,” Draco scoffed. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the brunet asked, as if he’d never seen himself. 

“I mean,” Draco floundered, “You’re tall. A bit rugged looking. A bit sweet. Girls like that. I’ve heard.”

“Do they?” Longbottom’s eyes were wide and innocent and Draco honestly couldn’t tell if he was having him on or not. He pointed a stern finger at him.

“Do not let those underaged temptresses seduce you.”

Longbottom guffawed loudly. “I promise, that won’t be a problem. Anyhow, your only other option is Simon Marchand, the ghoul studies professor, since Ellery Ikin, who teaches Alchemy is completely straight and also married.”

“Isn’t Marchand muggleborn?” Draco asked, eyes narrowing in thought.

Longbottom shrugged. “Yeah, but he still could have done some research, if he was really interested in you.”

“Do you think he could be? I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him.”

“If actually having spoken to you is a criterion for wanting to court you, then I’m the only candidate, seeing as you don’t talk to anyone else.” Longbottom raised his eyebrows pointedly at Draco and the blond nodded his head, acceding the point. 

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that. So that was, what, Rafe Varnham the 24-year-old squib who reeks, Simon Marchand the 40-year-old muggleborn-”

“He’s only 37, actually.”

“-or Rubeus Hagrid, the octogenarian who hates me?”

“Looks that way, yeah. Unless it’s a student.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Or someone from Hogsmeade.”

“Fuck.”

“Personally, my bet is on Rafe. You’re rather pretty and I think he fancies you.”

Draco batted his eyes at the other man. “You think I’m pretty?”

Longbottom rolled his eyes and patted Draco’s bony ankle again. “Yes, yes, you’re very pretty,” he said in a voice like he was speaking to a small child.

Draco pouted.

“Have I told you how lovely your new hairpin is?” The Gryffindor asked solicitously, and Draco accepted the implicit apology.

“No you have not. Which is very rude of you. It  _ is  _ lovely, isn’t it? I was just thinking to myself, I think I’m going to wear it every day. Did you know it matches my animagus form?”

“I did notice that, yeah. You’re a falcon, aren’t you?” Longbottom asked, eyes full of genuine curiosity. 

“Yes, I am! A gyrfalcon, with lovely grey spots. Just beautiful.”

“I know, I’ve seen it. It’s very impressive. I never was able to manage an animagus form. I think I’d be something like a saint bernard, though. Something too big for its body.”

“A huge slobbery thing with big teeth and no bite. That sounds about right, I think.”

“I could bite, if I wanted to.”

Draco grinned. “Yes, I suppose you could. You with your broadsword. Very mediaeval-knight of you. The most Gryffindorish thing I think anyone has ever seen since Godric himself roamed these halls.”

“You make it sound like I’m the heir of Gryffindor or something,” Longbottom pointed out, laughing.

Draco laughed along with him. “Well, technically, you  _ are  _ the head of the noble and most ancient house of Gryffindor,” he said grandiosely, reciting the title with relish at his impressive wordplay.

Longbottom just groaned.

Draco cackled. 

In the end, not much was accomplished on the courtship front, but Draco ended up having a very lovely evening nonetheless. And if he woke up with a screaming headache the next morning after having downed most of the bottle of firewhiskey, well, he had potions for that. He might even offer some to the man who was fast becoming what Draco might cautiously call an actual friend.

Would wonders never cease?


	4. A gift of something sentimental to show how much you care

“Oh, Professor! I meant to ask: where did you get that hairpin? I’ve never seen you wear one before.”

Draco paused where he was packing up the thick pile of seventh-year exams to grade over the Midwinter break and reached back to touch the cool silver clip. “You noticed?” he asked, pleased and a little self-conscious, glancing up at Tryphena Urswick where she lingered near the door. 

“Yeah! It’s very pretty. I was just wondering if it was new, since I’ve never seen it before. Did you get it for your birthday, or Christmas or something?” Phoenie asked, brushing her own short, russet-brown curls behind her ear. 

Draco preened a little at the thought that  _ someone  _ had noticed, other than Longbottom that was. “It was a gift, yes,” Draco confirmed. “My birthday isn’t until June, however, and I don’t celebrate Christmas. In fact, it was a courting gift, if you must know.” Draco knew it wasn’t strictly appropriate to be speaking of his romantic life with a student, but she was seventeen and Draco had just been waiting for the opportunity to gush to someone about his courtship, especially since it was growing so close to the end.

Tryphena was gratifyingly excited by the news. “A courting gift?!” she asked, abandoning her post by the door to crowd up against Draco’s desk. “Like, with the camellias and everything?”

Draco grinned coyly, “Yes, the camellias showed up on Monday, then this,” his fingers brushed the pin again, and then dragonhide gloves just yesterday.”

“Wow,” the girl sighed, her eyes glazing over a little, “that’s so romantic. I’ve never heard of anyone getting courted for real. Who is it? Is it one of the other professors?”

Draco bit his lip, knowing he really oughtn’t give out any more details than he already had, but the student rumour mill wasn’t a teacher’s greatest resource for nothing. “Actually, I’m not sure. Most likely, it’s another member of staff, but I suppose it’s possible it might be someone else. In Hogsmeade or something, perhaps.” Draco refused to voice the hypothesis that it could be a student. There were some lines that just shouldn’t be crossed, and this was one of them.

Phoenie’s eyes widened as her face took on a comical expression of absolute incredulity. “You  _ don’t know _ ?!” she screeched, and Draco looked away, pursing his lips and shrugging. “How can you not know who’s courting you?! How are you supposed to respond if you don’t know who it is?!”

“Well,” Draco hedged defensively, “I’ve been doing some digging to try and figure it out. Realistically, there aren’t that many options. It’s just a matter of finding the right clues. And Professor Longbottom has been helping, as well,” he tossed in, figuring the man deserved a little credit in all this.

Tryphena blinked a couple of times before seeming to calm herself down. “Professor Longbottom?” she asked in an odd voice.

“Yes, well, we’re friends. Sort of. We were in the same year at school, you know. Not that we were friends then - a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, can you imagine? But. When one has been around someone for a long time one… gets to know a person. It’s rather hard to avoid entanglements in an environment as close-knit as this one.”

“Right. Yeah, I actually knew that about you and Professor Longbottom. About you being in the same class, I mean. And… he’s helping you search for whoever’s courting you?” 

“Yes. He’s written a list of all the possibilities. At least those amongst the faculty.”

Tryphena nodded absently, her eyes distant. “Yeah, I suppose there are a few people it could be. But, well, if you think about it, there’s really only one good option.”

It was Draco’s turn to blink, startled. He would have announced the news to his class on Tuesday morning if he’d known they could be that efficient. “Really? Who?”

Phoenie gave an awkward smile. “I mean, I couldn’t say for  _ certain _ …”

“But you think you know who my suitor is?”

The girl tilted her head, glancing at the open door, clearly waiting for her chance to escape now that the conversation had become awkward. “I have an idea. But you’re the one doing all the research, so I’m sure you’ve already thought of it and discounted it yourself.”

“Thought of what?” he pressed, leaning over his desk like physical proximity will increase the likelihood of spontaneous legilimency. 

“Well… I mean… Just- think about it, yeah? Look, I’ve got to go, I still have an arithmancy final I’ve got to study for. I’ll see you after break, yeah? Good luck with your potential new relationship! I hope it doesn’t turn out to be someone scuzzy like Varnham!” She threw over her shoulder as she fairly sprinted out the door. 

Draco took it back, the students were no help at all. What did she mean there was only one good option? Apparently, it wasn’t good enough to  _ tell him _ . ‘Just think about it!’ Like he’d been doing anything else with his time. At least there was some vindication in his opinion that Rafe Varnham would be an absolute nightmare.

It was just as well that she’d gone when she had, though, as Draco himself had an appointment in a few minutes and it wouldn’t due to be late.

He walked briskly through the long corridors, thankful that the faculty meeting room was on the first floor and wasn’t too far of a walk from the dungeon. He had to push his way through the throngs of exuberant students who were finally finished with the first half of their final exams before Midwinter break, but in the end he made it to the meeting room with a few scant minutes to spare.

Longbottom had saved the seat next to him at the large, round table which Draco gratefully collapsed into. Aurora Sinistra walked in sleepy-eyed right as the clock struck the hour, which was par for the course for the nocturnal astronomy professor.

“Welcome all,” McGonagall greeted them with just as much dignified ceremony as she would use for her speeches in the Great Hall. It was one of the things Draco liked about McGonagall as headmistress. She had none of the whimsical pageantries that Dumbledore had carried, just a steadfast, no-nonsense dedication and respect which she extended to both the student body and the faculty. He desperately wished she’d been his headmistress throughout his school years. He had the feeling that things would have turned out as much less of a dumpster fire than they had. 

“This will be the last staff meeting of the school term, and we have much to discuss.” As she turned and began asking Osbern how he found his first term teaching had gone, Draco leaned over to Longbottom to whisper, “I wish these meetings took place after dinner. We could really use some wine to make these less excruciating.”

Longbottom whispered back out of the corner of his mouth, eyes still set on McGonagall, “I can’t believe you’re thinking about alcohol after last night.”

“Tell me you don’t want to scratch your eyes out during these things?”

“Draco, do you have anything to add?” McGonagall asked and an icy spike of fear lanced down his spine. He’d been teaching at this school for ten years and yet McGonagall’s stern, Scottish brogue never failed to make him feel thirteen again. Every time.

“Well, I’ve never taught Theory of Magic, but if Wesley would like some tips arranging his lesson plans, my door is always open. Especially for a former member of my house.”

“Er, thanks Professor. I mean- Draco,” Wesley stuttered, eyes glued to the table.

“Yes, your lesson planning has always been exceptionally well structured, Draco. Does anyone else have any concrete advice?” Draco sighed silently in relief as Flitwick took over, reciting what sounded like a bulleted list of teaching techniques and Draco casually took a few notes, listening with half an ear as he looked around at the gathered staff members.

Yoxall and Hautreeve were taken. Wesley was single, but he was too skittish around Draco to be an option. Which only left Marchand, the ghoul studies professor. He was only seven years older than Draco, apparently, and he wasn’t entirely ugly. His dun-brown hairline was receding a bit at the temples, but Draco didn’t begrudge him that, and there may have been a few sprinklings of grey in his well-manicured beard, which Draco did like. He was shorter than Draco by several inches and his nose was a bit bulbous, and while he wasn’t exactly portly, there was a softness to him that was evident under his thick woollen jumpers and beige trousers he wore underneath his robes.

Draco was grown up enough not to write him off completely just for the fact that he was muggleborn. His parents definitely wouldn’t approve, but it had been years since he’d let their opinions dictate his life. And just because he was short and a little chubby didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t throw his weight around in the bedroom. He was really trying to keep an open mind, and, well. Tryphena was right. There really was only one good option.

Draco looked up as the door banged against the wall too hard, Varnham’s hand extended like he’d tried to catch it before it escaped his reach. He looked up, smiling at McGonagall sheepishly. “Sorry.”

McGonagall frowned severely. “You’re late, Mister Varnham,” she said in that clipped, disappointed tone that struck fear into the heart of every one of her former students. Apart from Flitwick and Hagrid who were actually older than McGonagall, and Wesley who had only ever known the woman as headmistress and not as the fearsome professor of Transfiguration and head of Gryffindor, all the other members of staff seemed to tense at her tone. He thought Longbottom and Marchand, also a fellow Gryffindor, might have been holding their breath. 

Varnham, however, was a squib, and a young one at that, and had never experienced McGonagall’s wrath before. He shrugged a little, embarrassed at having been caught sneaking in, but unconcerned. “Yeah, I lost track of time. Besides, it’s not like I’m a teacher or anything. I doubt any of this really has anything to do with me, anyway.”

There was a collective intake of breath as each member of staff contemplated the bollocks of this man. Varnham looked around curiously, probably wondering why everyone looked like he’d just spit in the Minister of Magic’s face.

“I see,” McGonagall said cuttingly. “You don’t think the goings-on of this school or the status of the student body is relevant to your duties as caretaker of this castle? You don’t think getting to know your fellow staff members is relevant to your duties?”

Varnham laughed a little nervously. “I just clean the place,” he said, and Draco thought his soul might just leave his body.

“Well,” McGonagall said after she had digested that, “perhaps, if this is all so unimportant to you, you’d rather  _ just clean _ someplace else.”

“What, like Hagrid’s house?”

Hagrid made an unintelligible but offended sort of noise and McGonagall exhaled very deliberately through her nose. “Sit  _ down _ , Mister Varnham.”

Yeah, that boy wouldn’t be there next year, Draco would bet his wand on it.

“Your suitor is such a rebel,” Longbottom whispered hotly into Draco’s ear. Draco shivered, but it was due to the imagery, not Longbottom’s close proximity. 

“My suitor is an absolute moron and I refuse to believe it could be him.”

Longbottom’s shoulders shook in silent laughter as McGonagall continued on with the meeting. 

The both of them, having been scared into dutifulness by the headmistress’s quiet rage, spent the rest of the long meeting taking careful notes and piping up when their opinions were called for, but otherwise kept their heads down and their voices to themselves, though they did share a few significant glances whenever Pince complained about the students making a ruckus in the library, or Wesley referred to another coworker as ‘Professor’. 

Still, Draco found his gaze drifting back to Marchand from time to time as he thought of how a man he’d barely spoken to could know so much about him, and what he might be like as a lover.

He tried to speak to the man over dinner that evening, but Hautreeve monopolised his time with conversation and in the end Draco didn’t manage to get anything more out of him than a polite “Good night, Draco,” as the two went their separate ways once the students had filed out of the Great Hall.

Despondent, Draco was slow going back to his rooms. Despite Miss Urswick’s assertion that there was only one real option when it came to his potential suitor, the more Draco considered his options, the less certain it was any of them at all. Maybe it  _ was  _ someone from Hogsmeade. 

So caught up in his maudlin thoughts was he, that he nearly missed that evening’s gift, wrapped in silken green fabric and tied with a delicate silvery-white ribbon on his coffee table. 

There was no box for this gift, and so Draco could tell from the shape of it that it was a book. The fourth gift was supposed to be something sentimental to the receiver; something to prove that the suitor truly knows their beloved and the things that are important to them. Draco wondered what could be in this book that could be personal to him unless it was a tell-all from one of his classmates. Maybe Potter had released an autobiography after all.

Pulling on the ribbon, the tie came loose, and the silk succumbed to gravity, falling away to reveal a terrifically old, painstakingly maintained leather-bound book. The cover had no title but was intricately embroidered with golden thread. Upon opening the book, careful to support the fragile bindings, Draco read “To Julyane who is to me as dear as the Sun and twice as bright. My heart shalt be ever thine. With all of my love, Sorcha.” 

Gasping, Draco nearly dropped the precious book. Flipping through the fraying parchment, Draco read sonnet after sonnet penned by the woman called Sorcha declaring her love for Draco’s own distant grandmother. 

While there had been a painting of Julyane Malfoy and her husband Tybalt Feversham in the manor, there were few records of their lives. Grandmother Julyane had penned many recipes for potions and designs for enchanted objects, all personal information had been purged but for the writings of their son Lucius I in his personal diary. 

Draco had found the diary after having learned of his father’s namesake and his notorious attempt to marry the muggle Queen and had been startled to find that while his parents had married and borne him, the two had lived separately with their lovers. His father Tybalt had maintained a lifelong love with the muggleborn witch, Benevolence Weasley, and had spent their time primarily at Court, his mother Julyane, the Malfoy heiress had fallen in love with a muggle nun while Lucius was away at school. To their deaths Tybalt and Julyane had remained faithful to their mistresses and yet all knowledge of them had been purged from the family’s memory. No paintings survived of them with their true wives, nor any diaries or letters. 

None of which was any big surprise, of course; a muggle and a muggleborn? (Although it did shed some light on the origin of the Malfoys’ rivalry with the Weasley family.) Even if the two purebloods had married and bred their pureblooded heir as they were meant to, the blood treason was a big enough stain on the family’s reputation to warrant an erasure of them from the family history. 

And yet here in his hands were poems penned by his grandmother’s beloved mistress. A baring of her soul shedding light on the tenderness of the life they’d shared. A thread from the tapestry that was his family’s proud and illustrious past that had been ripped away from him, but unlike his family’s ancestral home or reputation, this was something that had been returned to him. Something of his family’s past that he could keep.

Tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks as he read each sonnet one after the other, careful to wipe the wetness away before it could drip and stain the delicate parchment.

It could have been Marchand. A love story between a Malfoy and a muggle. A perfect parallel to a romance between him and a muggleborn. But how could a muggleborn have gotten his hands on this book? How could he have known of the connection between it and his family? How could he have guessed what it might mean to Draco?

No, muggle-penned or not, this book belonged to a pureblood. Likely it had been lying in wait as blackmail or a way to undermine his family. Something shameful to bring to light when the time was right. And now it was being given to him as a gift. A show of someone else’s love to some other Malfoy, 400-some years later.

Draco didn’t bother grading his term papers that night. Instead, he stayed up long into the night reading the words his ancestors had gone to great lengths to ensure he’d never read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys the romances between Tybalt&Benevolence and Julyane&Sorcha are so intricate I think I'm going to write an actual original story about them. Let me know if you wanna know more about them.


	5. A gift of something homemade to bare your heart

“Professor, is it true you’re being courted?” asked Ekaterina Elmebrigge, one of his Slytherin students as the rest of the fifth-year class passed forward their exams. 

Ah, shite, he knew it had been a bad idea to confide in a student. One day and it’s common knowledge throughout Slytherin House. And now by dinnertime, the whole school will know about it. Brilliant. Incredible. Just the way he was planning on starting off the holiday.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” he confessed, feeling backed into a corner with the way the room of fifteen and sixteen-year-olds immediately stared at like hunting dogs catching the scent of a wounded hare. 

“I heard your suitor is a mystery,” piped up Lucan Perryvall.

Draco started to blunder, “Well-”

“No, Phoenie said it was another professor!” Cyretta Goodwine screamed from the back of the class. 

Gods, had Tryphena just given a press release in the common room?

“Ohhh…” chorused the Slytherin side of the room in eerie unison. 

“Not necessarily,” Draco tried to deflect but it was no use. The Gryffindors were beginning to pick up the scent. 

“If it’s another professor…” Hal Woodburn trailed off, twisting in his seat to share a significant look with his friends.

“It could just as easily be someone from Hogsmeade. Or someone from my past,” Draco was really just throwing out suggestions at this point, since the staff angle had gone nowhere and he really had no idea.

There was another of those significant looks. Everyone looked like they knew something he didn’t.

“Probably it’s someone from your past,” said the resident teacher’s pet, a Gryffindor called Amelia.

“Someone you went to school with most likely,” said a child Draco couldn’t see. Suddenly the whole class was speaking all at once, throwing in their two knuts and the whole world ceased to make any sort of sense at all. 

“All right, all right, all right! That’s enough! Yes, it’s very interesting and I thank you all for your valuable input. Shouldn’t you all be packing for the train now? Get out of my classroom. I’ll see you all in January!”

Thusly dismissed the students loudly started packing up and making their way out the door. 

“I think we should get extra house points if we correctly guess who it is!” Ekaterina piped up over the din, and the remaining students cheered in agreement. 

“Yes, fine!” Draco relented. “Discuss it amongst yourselves and give me the lists when you return. I’ll grant  _ one  _ house point to anyone who manages to guess correctly.”

Draco felt as though he may well have signed his life away.

*

Dinner that evening was one of the eeriest of his life, and he had endured a lot of uncomfortable dinners. Students all down the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables stared up at him before ducking their heads down and whispering amongst themselves, and news had clearly passed the house lines into Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff awareness, though the two clearly had less of a vested interest in the subject.

“Has something happened of which I am not aware?” McGonagall asked a little wryly, the students’ attention on the potions master not having escaped her notice. 

“Ah… I may have let slip to one of my students that I’m currently being courted, but that the identity of the man is… somewhat in question. News… appears to have gotten out… and I may have promised house points to whomever correctly guesses the identity of my suitor.”

Next to him, Longbottom started choking on his cucumber water. 

McGonagall glanced from him to Longbottom, to the collected student body, her thin eyebrow raised. “You realise there are about seven hundred students at this school?”

Draco shrugged. “There’s no way they can know who it is. I don’t even know who it is!”

The headmistress spared another glance at Longbottom who had ceased choking and was now coughing concerningly into his napkin. “Of course. And may I offer my congratulations, Draco? Neville,” she patted the taller man on the back comfortingly before returning to her roast. 

“Thanks, Headmistress,” Draco and Longbottom both awkwardly responded, staring into their dinners, trying to avoid the avid gazes of the nearly seven hundred students who kept glancing their way. Draco couldn’t wait until tomorrow when they’d all be gone.

He sighed in wholehearted relief when he finally shut his door behind him that night. All his exams were finished waiting to be tested. He had maybe three Slytherins who were staying in the castle over the holiday, and he didn’t expect (valiantly hoped) that they’d care overmuch about his personal life. He was finally free. These last few weeks of term were always the worst, and now that it was all over, Draco just wanted to collapse onto his bed and sleep for the next week.

But then again, if he slept the whole week, he’d never find out who his suitor was, and apparently, the entire student body had joined a high-stakes betting pool against him. Opening his eyes, Draco let them drift towards his sitting room where his courting gifts customarily appeared. There was a hatbox sat next to the camellias. Was his suitor a hatter? 

The final gift was always something homemade. In the romances he pretended he didn’t read, the final gift was always the most personal, something the charming love interest had poured his heart and soul into. An original musical composition that brought the heroine to tears. A photorealistic portrait of his beloved painted from memory. A sculpture chiselled out of marble. In one memorable book, a positive pregnancy test. His was apparently a hat.

Lifting the lid off of the small, square package, Draco looked inside and saw that he was mistaken. The hatbox was just a box and inside was not a hat but rather a fluffy, knitted scarf in pale lavender and silvery grey. It was not the work of an artistic genius as in his romances. It was not the most personal or the most impressive of the gifts that he had received. 

It was in his favourite colour, though, and it looked cosy and comfortable, and like the amateurish work on his embroidered gloves, bespoke long hours of struggle in a craft his suitor had no mastery of but had toiled over anyway for his sake, to create something he thought Draco might like.

Draco  _ did  _ like it. It was not especially stylish, and didn’t match any of his dark outerwear, and the pastel colours washed him out, but Draco  _ liked  _ lavender. Many of his seldom-worn personal clothes and pieces of decor around his rooms were in some shade of purple or another.

As he held the fluffy, striped fabric in his hands, he realised what an absolute colossal idiot he had been. He sat down on his stylish, comfortable sofa that he had  _ not  _ bought from an estate sale, and buried his face is the scarf, inhaling the scent of clean yarn. 

He knew this yarn. He’d seen it just the other day, in the small woven basket under Longbottom’s end-table. Longbottom, who had compiled a list of eligible men, but failed to include himself. 

Except he  _ had _ , hadn’t he? He had said, “If actually having spoken to you is a criterion for wanting to court you, then I’m the only candidate.” Why would Draco assume a stranger wanted him when right beside him was the person who knew him best in the whole school? Who probably knew him best out of anyone he knew, in fact. The man who had known him for nineteen years. Had known him when he was an eleven-year-old bully and a prat. Had known him when he was seventeen and caught up in a war he couldn’t escape, doing his best to protect the younger children from a harsher punishment at the hands of the Death Eaters who had taken over the school. The man who had been beside him for ten years as Draco learned to be a good teacher and a decent man. 

And hadn’t Tryphena said, “If you think about it, there’s really only one good option,”? Which was absolutely true. Who knew that Draco was a falcon animagus? Who knew that Draco was named not for the beast but for the constellation? What pureblood could have gotten his hands on a book of love sonnets and known they had been written for Draco’s grandmother?

All along, Draco had been too close to see the truth that was right in front of him. The truth that everyone else had seen right off. 

Here was a man who knew Draco like no one else knew him. Had seen him at his worst and forgiven him for it. Had seen his struggle to improve himself and decided he was a man worth loving. Had seen his absolutely idiotic attempt to uncover the most obvious mystery of all time,  _ indulged  _ his nonsense, and yet still wanted a relationship with him? For that was what these gifts implied, wasn’t it? 

I see you. (Your vanity, your materialism, your anal-retentive tendencies.)

I respect you. (Your career which I share. Your replacement and occasional imitation of the man who terrified me in my youth.)

I know you. (Your histrionic melodrama. Your spitefulness. Your obliviousness.)

I love you. (In spite of, or maybe because of all of these things.)

Draco looked up from where his face was buried in the downy-soft fabric and looked back at the hatbox, where a note lay at the very bottom.

Draco took the piece of parchment in shaking fingers. It was nondescript. Just a blank sheet folded over. The outside read simply, “Draco”. Draco unfolded it and in the neat script of someone who had been forced to perfect his calligraphy from an early age was written, “Meet me at the Lake during dinner tomorrow. I await your response. Hopefully yours.” There was no signature, but Draco didn’t need one. 

He would be there, tomorrow; and he had his answer.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm thinking of retitling this Midwinter Mystery. What do you think? Give me your opinion in the comments. The last chapter will be out TODAY! (it's currently 1 am) I am planning to write in the afternoon instead of at night as is my wont, so that the chapter counts towards my 2020 word count, and so Robyn has a chance to read it BEFORE January. This is supposed to be an Xmas present, after all.


	6. A gift of flowers to accept the courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth and final chapter of the story previously known as The Language of Love aka the Dreville Christmas Romcom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, this time my late posting was NOT because I spent all my time fucking off. I dedicated this whole day to writing. I wrote from 11am to 3pm, then again from 7pm to right now which is 2am. Two hours past my cut off time for this chapter to count towards my 2020 total word count which is SO frustrating, but this chapter took SO long to write. It is so long, you guys. Somehow I just kept rambling about nonsense and by the end it was a full 7k. 
> 
> So I hope you all enjoy it! I spent my whole New Years Eve on this. 
> 
> Also note: I changed the title because I hated the old one.

Draco made himself scarce after the rush of students had left to catch the train, too nervous at the thought of running into Longbottom - or should he start referring to him by his first name? Too nervous at the thought of running into _Neville_ before dinner that evening.

First, once the train had left, Draco took out his seldom-used broom and flew to nearby Hogsmeade. Draco was relatively well known at Dogweed and Deathcap, the local herbology shop, but Draco knew that the shop carried Jonquil for its medicinal properties, as well as several other useful flowers. The greenhouses at Hogwarts were dedicated to rare and expensive plant specimens that often only flourished in specific climates, making them hard to come by in Britain. Rarely were there mundane flora maintained at the castle. It was a misconception among potions students that only magically cultivated plants were useful in potion-making. In fact, several ordinary, mundane flowers could be utilised to great effect. 

Draco knew that even muggles tended to try their hands at making potions, and while a muggle couldn’t achieve the same effect without the magical element, many of them still managed to create a passible facsimile. He’d heard that their use of chemistry had made leaps and bounds in the realm of muggle potion-making, but even then, the results were unpredictable and the side-effects severe. 

Dogweed and Deathcap was Hogwarts main supplier of the more common of potions ingredients, being both cheap and local. Draco inhaled the fragrant, floral scent inside the shop and approached the saleswoman, a thin, older woman with long hair pulled into a low chignon at the back of her neck.

“Good morning, Draco!” she greeted with a polite smile. “I’ve got a new supply of chamomille just this week!” 

Draco nodded, “Thank you, Delia, it’s on my list, but I’ve not come about official business just now. I actually need a bouquet made.”

“Oh! How lovely! Do you know what it is that you want, or are you just looking for something general?”

“I need an arrangement of five [jonquils](https://previews.123rf.com/images/ralphgillen/ralphgillen1607/ralphgillen160700012/61463454-bright-yellow-and-orange-jonquil-flowers-in-closeup-.jpg) with a single red [carnation](https://images.homedepot-static.com/productImages/9d11f350-b394-4010-b9c3-4b109cfd7141/svn/globalrose-flower-bouquets-carnations-red-200-c3_600.jpg) in the centre. And if you’ve got some [rosebud moss](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/72/c7/9a/72c79a23ed4120da47184e5484dcaa07.jpg), maybe sprinkle a bit of those on the outside however you think is nice.”

Delia gasped. “A reception bouquet? So you’re the one Dear Neville bought the courtship flowers for!”

“Just so. I’m planning to give my response tonight,” Draco blushed a little, preening as Delia fawned over him.

Taking his hand, the older woman squeezed, overflowing with second-hand joy. “Congratulations, Draco! I do hope you’ll be happy together. Neville has always been such a nice boy.,” she simpered. 

“Yes, he is. I think he might be the best man I know, if I’m being honest. At least, he’s managed to put up with me for this long, which is rather miraculous in itself.”

Delia tsked as she began flitting around the shop, collecting flowers. “None of that talk, now, Draco. You’re a lovely man! You may have been a bit of a hellion in your youth, but we’re all quite fond of you here in the village, and I know the students think quite highly of you as well.”

“How could you possibly know what the students think of me?” Draco asked incredulously. 

The thin woman only shrugged as she counted out just the right number of cheerful, yellow jonquils. “We hear things,” she said enigmatically, which only raised more questions, honestly. What were students saying about him on their jaunts down here? Had he ever spoken about his professors on his Hogsmeade weekends? Maybe how much he hated Dumbledore, or the rumours about whether Sprout was growing cannabis in her basement rooms. The gossip mill ran further and wider than he’d ever considered. 

The arrangement was simple enough and didn’t take long to arrange. Delia tied the blossoms together at the stems with twine, having no ribbon on hand as her flowers went primarily towards potions-making rather than decorative bouquets. “Sorry I haven’t got any pretty ribbon on hand. Allicock & Zescoi’s Ceramics and Glassworks has a lovely collection of vases, though, if you’d be interested in one of them?” she suggested as she wrapped the delicate package in paper to protect.

Draco bit his lip in contemplation. He was actually planning to deliver them with the nice ribbon Neville had used to wrap Sorcha’s book of sonnets, but now that he thought about it, it might be a good idea to have a vase on hand for when they eventually (hopefully) made their ways back to Neville’s apartment. (He’d suggest they go back to his own much closer chambers, but then what would they do with the flowers?) And it would be a nice bit of symmetry for Neville to have a nice vase from what must have been the same place that he had bought for Draco’s original bouquet, 

“Yes, I think I probably should. Thank you, Delia. Happy Midwinter!” 

“Happy Midwinter, Draco! And congratulations once again!” Delia called over the cheerful chime of her door as he stepped back out into the cold. A light flurry of snow had begun to fall since he’d been inside, but Draco paid it little mind, burrowing deeper into his striped lilac scarf instead, the fragile paper package tucked carefully into the folds of his woollen cloak. 

Allicock & Zescoi’s was at the other end of the village, and ordinarily, Draco would have stridden at his usual brisk pace singlemindedly, but, as he was of a mind to while away the hours until 19:00, he consciously slowed to a pleasant stroll. He admired the small village in its natural scarcity without the weekend crowds of students everywhere one looked, the light snow dusting the quaint, old buildings like confectioner’s sugar. 

What would have been a five minute’s walk was lengthened to ten and Draco’s pale nose was red with the cold when he entered the warm interior of the ceramics and glasswork shop. 

“Welcome!” said a young man Draco vaguely recognised as having been one of his students some years ago, although he couldn’t remember if it was James Allicock or Crispin Zescoi. The man was a few years older than Wesley, perhaps around Varnham’s age bearing an unfortunate attempt at facial hair that further obfuscated him from Draco’s recognition. Neither Allicock nor Zescoi had been in Slytherin house and neither had elected to take potions for their NEWTs and thus Draco had not made any great effort to commit their very ordinary faces to memory. They had already been older students when Draco had started on as Potions Master, and he did not have the popularity among the student population that he apparently enjoyed now. “Professor Malfoy!” Draco thought the smile tensed a bit at the edges. “What can we do for you? Looking for some nice flatware? I’ve just finished a really nice tea-set if you’re looking for Christmas gifts!” 

“No, thank you… James,” he hazarded a guess, figuring it was a fifty-fifty shot. The man didn’t correct him so he mentally congratulated himself. “I believe Professor Longbottom visited here earlier this week? He bought a crystal glass vase? I’m looking for something similar. Something… delicate, but I think I’d like some colour to it. Have you got anything like that?”

James Allicock nodded his head slowly. “Yeah, our more popular glass items are just there,” he pointed toward the shelf lining the right wall of the small interior, boasting a myriad of clear crystal stemware, drinking glasses, and light fixtures. “I make most of the vases, as you can see,” he continued gesturing toward the ceramics on the opposite wall, “but Crispin has a lot of speciality items back in the workshop. Mostly original art pieces and commissioned items, but that’s where he keeps most of the coloured glass stuff. I’ll just… let him know you’re here, yeah?”

At this, Allicock ducked through the swinging double door at the back of the showroom, leaving Draco to peruse the rest of the inventory. It was all rather good. Perhaps not quite up to the quality that he would buy for his mother, but Allicock had a collection of ceramic plates and bowls that Draco personally had a mind to buy for himself, for the small cottage in Warrington that sat empty for nine months out of the year. 

There was no good use in buying flatware for his rooms at Hogwarts since he was obligated to eat with the students in the Great Hall. He _could_ use some nice glasses, though. Coffee cups and saucers. He brewed his coffee in a copper, Turkish cezve, but he wasn’t fond of drinking from the copper cups that had come with the set his mother had bought him when he took on this position, lovely as they were. There didn’t appear to be many options in coffee sets, the array focusing mostly on the lower, wider tea sets favoured by the muggle-born and half-blooded student clientele and others who preferred the more modern beverage which had become so popular after the introduction of muggle culture to the Wizarding World in the late nineteenth century. Most of the older pureblood families drank coffee, a holdover from its popularity in the sixteenth century when the Statute of Secrecy had taken effect and Wizarding culture had departed entirely from the muggle world. Draco, personally, couldn’t stand the smell of tea, unless it was an Indian chai masala, and even then it was only barely tolerable. Coffee masala, however, was delightful.

Allicock returned with his friend, Crispin Zescoi and yes, now that he saw them together the memories solidified in his mind. Crispin’s shoulder-length, dark brown hair, pulled half back into a small ponytail, straight Grecian nose and small Cupid’s bow contrasting against Allicock’s floppy, sandy brown hair and thin lips. Both very ordinary faces but in the context of one another Draco was better able to remember them as the lanky teenagers they had been, hiding in the back of his classroom. 

“Hullo, Professor,” Crispin said in a thick Geordie accent. “C’mon back, then. I’ll show you what I’ve got on offer.” 

Draco followed him through the double doors where a large workshop was situated, easily double the size of the small front room. Just as the front of the store, the workshop was divided down the middle for clay and glasswork, with a variety of ovens in the back, the walls lined with shelves of surplus merchandise and personal projects. 

“I haven’t got much in the way of vases. Professor Longbottom took my best piece. Crystal it was. The rest here are my spares. Bit more Avant-Garde with the shapes. Maybe a little overzealous with the colours. Jamie says to keep the nice, common pieces out front so’s not to scare people away, but if y’ask me crafting’s supposed to be all about the creativity, not just remaking what everyone already has. But the locals know to ask if they’re wantin’ something out of the ordinary, so most everything gets its day eventually. And we have a few sales days throughout the year where we fill the shop with all our oddball creations. The students love ‘em. We did one earlier this month for all the Christmas shoppers, but they mostly just wanted the odd art pieces.” Crispin spoke fast and Draco had to strain a bit to understand through his accent as they navigated the space between the workbench and the wall of shelves. 

Crispin stopped them in front of a spot on the wall with about three shelves dedicated to vases of all shapes and colours, a sharp contrast to the two cases dedicated to the things out in the shop, and the rows and rows of them along the ceramics side of the workshop. Still, the shelves had a wide variety of styles to choose from, and Draco was greatly impressed with the creativity at work. There were double-layered Nordic style vases with solid coloured, fantastically shaped interiors encased in clear glass, along with a variety of geometric and floral mosaics. Draco, though, was drawn away from the intricate details and unique shapes and toward a simple one on the end of the second shelf. It was tapered in the middle like his own, if a bit thicker, and the wavy, petal-shaped mouth also resembled the one that housed his camellias. [This one](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/61AyEOgPOuL._AC_UL400_.jpg), however, had many curved panels in a simple gradient of colours with accents of a soft gold. It was perfect. It was soft and warm and cheerful with an understated elegance that Draco’s experienced, refined eye could appreciate. “This one,” he said, gingerly taking the glass into his hand. 

“Oh, good choice!” Crispin complimented, although Draco assumed he must say the same thing to all his customers. “I don’t do a lot of gradients, but I was quite proud of that one. A bit too tame for the students when I set it out, though, and too bright for our regular customers. It suits you, I think, Sir.”

“Thank you, Crispin,” Draco demured quietly as he carried his prize back to the front of the shop, “but it’s not for me.” 

James - or ‘Jamie’ as Crispin had called him rang him up and carefully shrunk the frangible piece, placing it in a well-padded box for its protection. Draco pocketed the gift and checked his pocket watch, sighing when he saw that it had only just gone 9:00. 

It was still too early for lunch, so Draco avoided the Hog’s Head and made his way instead to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, which, while it did specialise in tea, _also_ sold the coffee masala that he so liked. Draco ordered a cup and a slice of gingerbread cake, also taking with him a periodical he liked, which posted a collection of serials. Flipping through the booklet, Draco reached the latest chapter of a story he’d been following the last few months, losing himself the to soft, winter morning. 

*

It was still well before noon when Draco flew back to the castle, so he locked himself in his rooms and set about the arduous task of grading term papers. He lost himself in the mind-numbing task, barely noticing when one of the kitchen elves popped in to deliver his lunch. His hand took to the task automatically, without any input from Draco himself, slowly devouring the Cornish pasty while Draco focused on reading essay after essay after essay. 

Seven hundred students at this school and almost all of them were taking potions. Damn him for picking a core subject. 

Draco bet Osbern and Marchand were already done with their grading. How many people actually took Theory of Magic and Ghoul Studies a year? Theory of Magic was obligatory for first-year students, so that was, what, an hour a day? And Ghoul Studies was an elective. Marchand taught one two-hour block a week. Marchand didn’t even live in the castle. He apparated to Hogsmeade once a week for his class, or for scheduled staff meetings and that was it. Apart from his class time and officially mandated office hours, Marchand actually spent the rest of the week at the Ministry of Magic working for the Spirit Division.

Osbern, as a full-time teacher, was obligated to supervise club meetings and… whatever else it was that elective teachers did. Draco didn’t actually know. He’d come on as a core subject teacher and head of house. His diary was full. He had no idea what menial tasks McGonagall gave the elective teachers to do to fill out their days. They didn’t have to take their meals in the Great Hall if they didn’t want to, a task only really necessary for the Headmistress and heads of house (which was really the one major downside of this whole job). Almost all the elective teachers did choose to eat with the rest of them, at least most nights. Marchand being there the night before was an oddity. His one class a week was on Friday from 14:00 to 15:50, and his office hours took place in the two-hour block immediately after, which had been delayed an hour due to the staff meeting which meant that for once, he was actually still in the castle when the dinner bell rang at 19:00. 

Some nights, Draco knew, a few of the teachers would congregate at the Hogs Head or else in one or another’s private rooms to sup and play cards. Hagrid typically ate in his own hut. 

Why was he even on this tangent? 

His eyes were blurry and his thoughts were muddled and if he had to try to read another thirteen year old’s chicken scratch handwriting he was going to set the whole stack on fire. Checking his watch, he boggled to find that it was a quarter to 17:00. That’s it. Grading over for the night. He had the whole rest of the holiday to read the other five hundred papers on his table. (That was an estimate. He didn’t count. That way lay madness.)

His arse was numb when he stood up from his chair and when he stretched his back, it cracked loudly. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms as he padded through the public rooms and into his private bathroom. There was a large soaking tub that Draco liked to use after long days, but that wouldn’t do this time.

Undressing, Draco stood in the corner of the room and placed his palm on a smooth round stone protruding from the wall which was charmed to activate the shower. Warm water sprayed down from the ceiling like rainfall and Draco sighed, rolling his neck. He quickly lathered his long, fine hair with a palmful of Sleekeazy’s and got to work washing and exfoliating his body. With a dollop of depilatory cream, Draco ensured his body was smooth to the touch, washing away the prickling of stubble since his last shower the night before. Not that he didn’t like a bit of hair on his men - he especially liked to run his fingers through a thick thatch of chest hair - but Draco wasn’t that sort of man. Draco was the sort of man who was manicured to the gills for any and every occasion. 

This certainly qualified as an occasion.

After twenty minutes, Draco was clean, exfoliated, moisturised, and hairless as a marble statue everywhere below his eyebrows. Pulling one leg up to rest on a low ledge built into the wall, Draco wandlessly coated his fingers in viscous slick and reached behind himself. He was thoroughly cleaned inside, but Draco thought it would be expedient to go the extra mile and ensure that he was sufficiently prepared, just in case they ended up shagging half-dressed on the first flat surface. 

He had used spit as lube and vowed never to undergo that particular experience ever again. He also didn’t want to have to waste time prepping if they didn’t have to. 

If they turned out to be in a hurry. 

Draco just wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. 

Three fingers deep, Draco contemplated adding a fourth just for good measure, but ultimately decided it might, possibly be overkill. Deciding he was as prepared as he was going to be, Draco stopped the rain and dried himself with a wandless gesture, shivering as all the water suddenly evaporated, leaving goose-pimples in its wake. 

Staring at himself in the mirror, Draco observed his face. He was clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, and blessedly wrinkle-free, but there were the faintest dark smudges under his eyes. With a cream, he gently massaged the skin until it blended in with the rest of his fair skin. He was going to have to add some colour to take away the wintery pallor. 

Sighing, he retrieved his make-up, ensuring that while his skin retained its natural colouring, it also bespoke of having left the dungeon and seen sunlight more than once every other week (which was a lie and Neville knew it, but that wasn’t the point). He also took the opportunity to darken his lashes and outline his lids in a subtle kohl, and then he thought he may as well shape up his eyebrows while he was at it, brushing them with with a colour a few shades darker than his hair. Not dark enough to look like they didn’t match, but not so pale that they were nearly invisible, either. A bit of neutral gloss to his lips, some scentless antiperspirant under his arms, and a tablet of bergamot and lemon teeth cleaner and he considered himself finished. 

On to the nails. Sitting on his toilet, Draco cut, shaped, buffed, and polished the nails on both his hands and feet, thankful that he’d taken the time to exfoliate the bottoms of his feet in the shower. On his toes and along the cuticles of his fingernails he painted a shiny, metallic silver, bordering a sleek heather-grey lacquer on the [tips](https://chicnailart.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/reversed-french-mani.jpg).

Then he stood in his wardrobe for thirty minutes trying and failing to decide what to wear. Should he wear a waistcoat or no? Breeches or trousers? Dress coat?

He eventually decided on an aubergine, satin shirt with a high collar unbuttoned to just below the hollow of his throat, the subtly embroidered fabric framing the long, pale column of his neck. He paired this with skin-tight lead-grey breeches (charmed for heat because these were not for winter-wear) sans undergarments so as not to ruin the line, and black, leather boots. The boots ended mid-calf, and with the extra two inches afforded him by the thick, square heels, Draco would be nearly of a height with Neville.

Finally dressed, face made up, and nails done, Draco sat at the vanity at the back of his wardrobe and began to comb his hair. As he’d done all week, he pulled half of it back, clipping it at the back of his head with his silver falcon, then pulling two locks of long, white-blond hair over his shoulders; the perfect, pale accessory to his rich, dark shirt.

Locating and checking his pocket watch, he gulped, body tingling with nerves. The dinner bell would be ringing in ten minutes. 

Should he head out now? No, it wouldn’t do to be early. The suitor ought to arrive first, _then_ the courted. Draco resolved to wait. The bell would ring at 19:00 then Draco would leave the dungeon. He sat down, smoothing his shirt, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

He stood up and walked to the door, pulling on his cloak and wrapping the knitted scarf around his neck. He ought to be prepared when the time came. 

He sat back down.

He took the parcel out of his pocket and unshrank it. He wanted it full-sized when Neville saw it. He’d give it to an elf when he passed the kitchen on his way upstairs. Glancing at the paper-wrapped flowers on the workbench, his heart skipped a beat. _Shit_ , he’d forgotten to replace the twine. 

Draco ran back to his bedroom, digging through the detritus on the top of his dresser looking for the wide silver ribbon Neville had tied his grandmother’s book in. He could feel the seconds ticking by and sweat prickled at the back of his neck. He found it - hidden along with the silk fabric inside of the hatbox he’d received last night. 

Frustrated with himself, Draco hurried back to the kitchenette and unwrapped the bouquet. Carefully, so as not to disturb their arrangement, Draco waved his wand, charming the ribbon to tie itself into a perfect bow.

He held it tightly - but not tight enough to crush the stems! - against his chest, settling back into his seat at his kitchen table. 

Then he stood up and began to pace. His heels clicked obscenely loudly against the worn stone floor as he walked the length of the room again and again. He was overheating in his outerwear but he couldn’t take it off, now.

He physically startled when the bell tolled. 

As if his life depended on it (or his love life, anyway), Draco snatched up the vase and ran out the door, boots clicking up the stairs before the first Slytherin even made it out of the common room. Turning sharply, Draco pushed his way into the large kitchen.

“Excuse me,” he called, waiting for any one of the bustling elves to acknowledge him. 

“Yess, Master Malfoy? What is it you is wanting? We is having dinner to serve!” Snapped a matronly elf whom he assumed to be in charge. 

“There can’t be more than twenty people in the castle,” Draco argued, thrusting the vase at her. “When you have a free moment, could you have someone deliver this to Professor Longbottom’s private chambers?”

The elf took the vase without a word to Draco but he could hear her muttering under her breath about professors and being too busy to deliver their own packages. Draco grinned, confident that whomever had ensured his gifts reached him intact would assure the same treatment for Neville’s.

One job thusly delegated, Draco slipped back into the throng of students as they headed toward the Great Hall, veering off at the doors and heading toward the castle entrance. 

Heart in his throat, Draco pushed open one of the heavy doors and was promptly smacked in the face by the whipping wind and snow.

The light flurries from that morning had morphed into a near-blizzard while Draco was sequestered in his dungeon room. For a fraction of a moment, he considered not going out. He could just meet Neville in his chambers. But what if Neville was outside waiting for him? He was a Gryffindor. He was the Gryffindor. Of course he was outside in the snowstorm waiting to meet his lover. Hopeful Lover - Neville didn’t know he was a sure thing, yet.

Sighing, Draco fortified himself, keeping the flowers tucked safely in the folds of his cloak, and stepped outside. There was hardly any visibility, and it was only seventeen years of familiarity with these grounds that kept him safely on the right track to the lake. He headed toward the large oak tree that stood at the edge of the water, knowing full well that the lake had frozen over and been covered with who knew how much snow by that point, and Draco was not about to risk taking a dive into that frigid hell. 

Sure enough, with the logic afforded by anyone who had spent the majority of their life alongside this lake, there was a blurry, dark figure hunched against the tree. Draco would sigh, but he was walking too fast to spare the breath, thanking Hekate that he hadn’t worn boots with thinner heels. 

He reached Neville’s side quickly, reaching out and grabbing his gloved hand in his own as he began tugging him back towards the castle. 

“Draco!” Neville called over the wind, tugging half-heartedly at his hand but following along anyway.

“Shut up, you idiot!” Draco yelled back irritably, crunching through the snow which was over his ankles in heels. 

“I’m sorry!” Neville said and not even the wind could hide the crack of despondency in his voice. “I know I’m not what you expected, and this isn’t how I wanted this to go-” 

“Oh for the love of-” Draco stopped abruptly, dropping the hand clutched in his own, and Neville ran into him from behind. 

“Oof! Sorry! I’m sorry! I-”

Draco raised his arms and held Neville’s stupid face in his gloved (leather, fur-lined) hands and kissed him soundly on his blathering mouth. 

“Mmmf!” Neville exclaimed but said nothing more when Draco pulled away, just blinked at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. 

“I knew it was you. I accept your courtship proposal. Can we please discuss the rest of this inside?!”

Mouth still gaping like a fish, Neville nodded dumbly and Draco took back up his hold on Neville’s large hand and resumed leading way back to the blessed indoors, Neville following at a much brisker pace now that he didn’t think he was being rejected. 

Not soon enough, they were slipping in through the double doors. “Oh thank gods,” Draco sighed in abject relief but that was all he had time to say before he was being crowded back up against the heavy oak and kissed within an inch of his life. 

Neville still had maybe an inch on Draco in the heels but Draco didn’t mind. His stubble from the other day had grown longer, softer rather than prickly against Draco’s bare face. He didn’t mind _that_ either. He didn’t use his tongue, just caressed Draco’s lips with his own, leaving him breathless. 

Draco gasped when he finally pulled away, clutching at his long, heavy coat. 

“That was okay, right?” Neville panted into the narrow space between them. 

“Yeah,” Draco said, high and breathy. 

“Good. Brilliant. Fucking -!” Neville gesticulated with his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them but ultimately decided they belonged back on Draco, tugging him forward by the hips to reclaim his mouth. 

Draco groaned and gripped onto Neville’s broad shoulders with both hands. Then he felt something shift inside his cloak.

“Oh, shit!” He exclaimed, pulling away, reaching inside the folds of his cloak he pulled out the mostly pristine if very slightly crushed bouquet. “Here,” he thrust them at Neville who took them with a soft, awed expression, like Draco had just handed him their newborn child. What a berk. “A token of my acceptance. I don’t need to tell you what the flowers mean. 

“Jonquils for returned affection, a solid red carnation to say yes. And rosebud moss: a confession of love,” Neville looked up at Draco, eyes bright and lips twitching into a shy smile. “That’s not a part of the traditional bouquet,” he pointed out.

Draco turned away, flushed from the cold, obviously. “Yes, well. I thought you deserved to know.”

“Do you really?” he whispered, stepping in close, the toes of his boots touching the points of Draco’s own, a hair’s breadth between them. 

Draco shrugged. “You’re the only friend I have here. The only person I want to spend time with. And you’re …incredibly attractive. And kind. And patient with me even when I’m making an absolute fool of myself. And-” 

“But do you love me? Because I love you. Truly.” 

Draco floundered for a few seconds, overwhelmed. “I want to,” he whispered eventually. “I want to fall in love with you.”

Neville nodded, smile spreading into a bright grin. “That’s good enough for me,” he said optimistically. 

Draco grinned back shyly. “Do you think we can go up to your room now? I think we’ve made enough public declarations for one night.”

Neville chuckled. “We’re the only ones here,” he pointed out, laying a hand on the small of Draco’s back, leading him toward the stairs. 

Draco side-eyed him. “You know better than that, Longbottom. These walls have eyes. I bet Myrtle’s lurking somewhere right now, watching us.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Neville said. “And Myrtle’s a perfectly fine girl.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never spent an extended period of time with her,” Draco muttered under his breath. 

“Are you wearing heels?” Neville asked suddenly from a few steps below him.

Draco looked back, brows furrowing. “Yes, why?”

“You came out into a blizzard in heels?!”

“In my defence, it had barely been flurrying when I got back in this morning, and I’ve been downstairs grading papers all afternoon. You know the only windows we have look out _under_ the lake. How was I supposed to know what the weather was doing?” 

“Good gods, Draco! You’re lucky you didn’t fall and crack your head open!”

“S’fine,” Draco reassured him. “The heels are thick.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Neville stated. 

“You knew that already.”

“Yeah. I did.”

Draco grinned to himself and climbed faster.

Reaching the seventh floor, Neville waved his wand to unlock his door, pushing inside. It was just the same as it had been the other day. Warm and cosy with the same uncomfortable brown sofa. It was tidy and uncluttered and it made Draco relax just walking inside. 

“Oh, Draco!” Neville exclaimed as he laid eyes on the colourful vase sat upon his kitchen table. 

“It doesn’t match the flowers at all, but I liked it. Crispin does good work.”

Neville gently handled the glasswork, turning it this way and that before pointing his wand inside and casting an aguamenti. Then he carefully untied the ribbon binding the flowers together and dropped them into the vase. “I’ll make sure they’re good to go in the morning,” he said, touching one green-covered rosebud with his gloved finger. 

Draco was already out of his gloves and shrugging off his cloak by the time Neville turned around finding him in his tight-fitting clothes and Neville’s hand-knitted scarf.

Draco watched with satisfaction as Neville’s eyes raked hotly up and down Draco’s body as he started to tug off his gloves. “I know it’s not the best, but I thought it suited you,” he said pointing his chin toward the fluffy lilac and grey scarf.

“Shut up, I love it. It’s soft and warm and it’s in my favourite colours. I’m going to wear it every day. I’m going to wear everything you’ve given me every day, except for the book which I will read every night and the flowers which I will look at every morning.”

Neville smiled as he unbuttoned his coat. “You don’t have to.”

“I do, because you gave them to me, and also because they’re perfect. They couldn’t be more perfect if every one of them had been tailored to my own specifications.”

“Even the scarf?” Neville asked, stepping forward to hang his coat on the hook, finger tugging the fabric loose from around Draco’s neck. 

“Especially the scarf.”

Draco allowed Neville to pull it off and hang it on the hook along with his own, then Draco felt his warm, bare hands on his face as he was pulled into another kiss. He sighed into it, sliding his fingers between his cotton shirt and woollen vest. 

Neville’s hand reached back, caressing the back of Draco’s neck and Draco wrapped one long leg around the Gryffindor’s waist and pulled him in close, hips grinding together and Neville gasped, taking hold of Draco’s thigh. They stood against the door, grinding together before Draco’s mind got back on track and he started pushing up Neville’s woollen vest. 

Neville caught on quick, Breaking away from Draco’s mouth just long enough to pull the jumper over his head, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his white, cotton shirt before pulling it off as well. Draco licked his lips at the strong pecs dusted with fine brown hair, and line trailing down into his brown trousers. He gulped as Neville watched, mesmerised as Draco ran his fingers down his chest, silently charming his buttons undone, leaving the deep purple shirt hanging open. Neville ran his rough hands up Draco’s thin ribs, calloused palms catching on Draco’s sensitive nipples as he slipped the satin off his shoulders to puddle on the floor, leaving him in only his boots and unbuttoned breeches. 

“Are you not wearing any pants?” Neville asked, choked, seeing the deep open vee of Draco’s fly. 

Draco smirked, “You don’t wear pants with breeches.”

Without waiting for Neville, Draco sauntered toward where he knew the bedroom lay, leaving Neville to follow helplessly behind. He looked around but didn’t pay close attention, resolving to explore the room in more detail in the morning. Instead, he sat on the bed and tugged off his boots and stockings, wriggling his silver toes at Neville who balanced precariously on one foot as he removed one boot then the other. Neville nearly tripped when Draco stood, flicking the fabric of his breeches and undulating just so, letting them fall around his ankles. 

“Oh, fuck,” Neville breathed, ripping off his shoe and attacking his fly with fervour. Draco climbed up onto the bed, lounging sprawled and naked, unclipping his hair as he watched with interest as Neville pushed his trousers down and kicked them off before prowling up between Draco’s spread thighs like the lion he is. 

Neville covered Draco’s body with his own thick one. Draco mewled at the feeling of Neville’s long, heavy cock grinding into the crease of his thigh. 

“You’re so smooth everywhere,” Neville muttered, kissing up Draco’s neck. 

“Do you like it?” Draco panted, fingers digging into Neville’s thick hair.

“ _Yes_ ,” the Gryffindor growled, and the noise made Draco’s cock twitch against his stomach.

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?” Draco taunted, pulling his knees up to bracket Neville’s ribs 

Neville panted hotly into the space between Draco’s neck and shoulder for a moment before nodding, kissing his skin and moving down. 

Draco gave a high moan as Neville attacked his nipples, licking and sucking one while his hand rolled the other between thick, calloused fingers. Draco rocked himself up, rubbing his cock between the skin of his own smooth stomach and the coarse hair on Neville’s. He could feel himself dripping, easing the slide. 

Neville relented his attack on Draco’s nipples and ducked down to lick at the precome pooling on Draco’s stomach, rubbing his rough cheek against the sensitive skin of Draco’s shaft before mouthing upward and taking the tip into his mouth.

“Ffffuck,” Draco hissed between his teeth, one arm fisted in Neville’s hair while the other reached behind him and gripped the headboard. Neville suckled at the head of his cock then swirled his tongue and took him in fully. With each bob of his head, Neville took him in lower, not quite deep-throating, but intense nonetheless, his hand working the base in tandem with the movement of his mouth. 

With his other hand, Neville squeezed and rolled Draco’s heavy bollocks, caressing them as he worked him over with his lips and tongue. Reaching back further, Neville rubbed his thick knuckle behind his bollocks, stimulating his prostate through his perineum and Draco let out a long, stuttering moan, legs widening. When Neville reached the furl of his ass, though, he paused, feeling the slickness of his stretched rim. He pulled off despite Draco’s protesting whine and lifted Draco’s hips, folding him in half to stare at the pink furl clenching needily. With a finger Neville pushed inside him, Moaning low as Draco took him in with no resistance, adding a second finger just to feel him suck him in. 

“You prepped yourself,” Neville said, voice wrecked and hoarse. 

“Yes,” Draco gasped, trying to gain a bit of leverage but unable to in this position.

“You wanted me that much?”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

Neville nodded, licking his lips. “How do you want it?” he asked, his fingers grazing his prostate, making Draco blink back stars.

“Your- your mouth, first. I want to come in your mouth. Then fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Neville breathed. “Oh, fuck, yeah.” Without releasing Draco from his position, arse in the air, knees pressed against his chest, Neville’s hands holding them up under the knees, Neville ducked back down and took Draco’s prick back into his mouth. His warm brown eyes met Draco’s own as he messily licked and sucked his cock, drool dripping down the seam of Draco’s bollocks. Neville released one leg, guiding it to sit on his shoulder as he used his hand to stroke what he couldn’t fit in his perfect, hot, wet mouth. Draco was immobile as Neville took him between his lips, again and again, the subtlest graze of teeth causing electricity to spark under Draco’s skin. 

“I’m not going to last,” Draco gasped out desperately, but Neville only sucked harder, tongue massaging his fraenulum. Bobbing faster, fist flying over the base of his shaft, Neville licked with the flat of his tongue, all the way up to his dripping tip and Draco was done.

Draco pushed tightened his grip on Neville’s hair, fighting not to push him down to fuck his throat, but he needn’t have worried as Neville only sucked him through it, swallowing every drop.

Draco was shaking when Neville pulled off, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. Draco raised an arm to beckon him down and Neville went gladly, kissing him deeply. Draco was too orgasm-drunk to kiss with any finesse but he kept up valiantly, tasting himself on Neville’s tongue and instantly becoming addicted to the taste. 

“On your stomach,” Neville panted when he pulled away and Draco nodded even as Neville helped him to roll over. Neville stuffed a pillow under Draco’s hips, raising his arse, and Draco hissed a little at the friction against his spent cock. 

“Do you need any more prep?” he asked and Draco shook his head where it was buried in the mattress. 

“Just fuck me. Please fuck me,” he begged, widening his legs, but too weak to push up onto his knees. 

“Yeah,” Neville agreed, reverently stroking the soft curve of Draco’s arse, following the sinuous line of his spine. With his other hand, he positioned himself at Draco’s entrance and pushed inside, moaning low and loud at the tight heat. “Fuck, you’re still so tight!” he said, his hips stuttering as he tried not to take more than Draco was ready for, but Draco was having none of it. 

“I like it like that. I like the stretch. I’m ready, just fuck me!” he pushed back as much we was able, squeezing the thickness inside him and Neville didn’t have it in him to deny his wishes.

It took a few thrusts to find his rhythm, but Neville was soon pistoning into him savagely. “I’m-” he panted, fingers pressing bruises into Draco’s pale hips. “I’m not going to last either. I’m so close already! Gods -you’re so fucking tight, Draco!”

“Yeah. Yes! Come in me, I want it! Neville!” Draco cried out and Neville broke. His hips never stopped moving as he came, just kept fucking him through it until his erection started to soften and his nerve endings too over sensitised to take any more. 

Neville hissed as he pulled out, Draco whining as he was repositioned on his side, Neville spooned up behind him. The taller man worked a hand between them, ready to cast a wandless charm to clean up his lover, but Draco reached back and grabbed his wrist, stopping him. 

“Leave it,” Draco said drowsily, tugging Neville’s muscled arm tight around himself. 

Neville buried his face in Draco’s long hair, breathing him in for a moment. “That was the first time you’ve ever called me by my first name.”

“What?” Draco muttered sleepily. “No, it wasn’t.”

Neville pushed Draco’s hair over his shoulder and kissed the notch of his bare spine. “Yes. It was. In seventeen years, you’ve never once said my name until just now when I was inside you.”

Draco squirmed, rolling over until he was face to face with Neville in the lamplight. “Neville Longbottom,” Draco intoned very seriously, the tips of their noses just barely touching, “do you want to be my boyfriend?”

“Yes, I think I would like that,” Neville said through a goofy smile. 

“Grand, that was easy then. Get the lights, won’t you, Neville?” Draco asked, hiding his own dumb grin in Neville’s chest. 

“Yeah, all right,” Neville agreed easily, and waved off the lights.

*

And everyone lived happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's already read this far, I went back and added some links to the first and second chapters, but since you're already here:
> 
> [Here's](https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/assets/photo/40537731-480px.jpg) Draco's animagus form, [here's](https://i.etsystatic.com/17417911/r/il/924a48/1828328306/il_794xN.1828328306_8bh4.jpg) Draco's hair clip, [here's](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/bb/7e/f0/bb7ef0ee3d72b19cc93ebb0f93ff856f.jpg)the vase Draco's initial courtship gift came in, and here are the camellias in [white](https://www.thetreecenter.com/c/uploads/white-by-the-gates-camellia-1.jpg), [pink](https://www.gardenia.net/storage/app/public/uploads/images/39342051_m.jpg), and [red](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSZsGM1ukq4DUCKUEGNKijeToC1_W3m_dGIxbepnGM6i1lJIBd58NQZSRU5nz7vd33vkLxGwkw&usqp=CAc).


End file.
